K627
by Snowballjane
Summary: Hell has all the best composers. And Crowley has to go for a demonic performance review.


Title; K627 Author; Snowballjane  
  
Disclaimer; Aziraphale and Crowley are the property of heaven, hell, Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett.  
  
***  
  
Aziraphale surveyed the selection of wine bottles lined up on his sideboard and wondered when he could expect Crowley to appear. Hell's timing was, on occasion, about as reliable as the British railway system. The demon had been gone for five days, but had predicted he'd be back tonight, barring any major upsets.  
  
Aziraphale tried very hard not to fret about the possibility of major upsets.  
  
Crowley had considered staff performance reviews to be one of his finest ideas in a long time. The general workplace loathing cranked up several notches every time they came around. People's sense of being undervalued was increased. He'd expected a commendation.  
  
But that was where things had gone horribly awry, had backfired in the worst possible way. Hell had liked the idea - liked it so much that annual Demonic Performance Reviews were introduced. This was Crowley's third DPR. On the previous two occasions he had returned cranky and extremely thirsty.  
  
Aziraphale thought about that for a moment and swapped the bottles around so that the better wines would not be first to be drunk. Not that it mattered very much - they could always improve the quality - but there were one or two wines he'd been looking forward to tasting, and with a hell- parched Crowley around that meant some careful planning.  
  
He curled up on the sofa with the day's crossword puzzle to wait.  
  
About an hour later Crowley shuffled into the shop. The demon looked more than a little tired and Aziraphale could feel exhaustion emanating from him in waves.  
  
"What happened? How did it go?"  
  
"I don't want to talk about it."  
  
"Oh." Well, that was unexpected. On the previous two occasions, Aziraphale had been subjected to several hours ranting about the stupidity of the whole process, especially when Crowley had been marked down for 'disregard of management systems' - which seemed utter nonsense really for a demon.  
  
"No, no talking, listening," said Crowley cryptically, reaching into his jacket pocket and looking remarkably smug.  
  
That bothered Aziraphale. If hell's assessment of Crowley had left the demon feeling smug for some reason then he must really not be doing his own job right. He already felt guilty for cutting the demon a little slack over the past month so that he could reach at least one of his targets from last year's DPR.  
  
"Here," said Crowley. The CD twirling in the demon's fingers rainbowed with reflected light on one side. The other side was plain white, marked only with a small hand-written scrawl. Aziraphale took it and read: WAM, k627.  
  
He gulped.  
  
"How?" he asked, just about managing to stop himself from actually squealing with excitement at the idea of the improbable item he held in his hands.  
  
"It wasn't easy. I had to call in a stack of favours just to get them to stop torturing him with trumpets. Did you know Mozart had a phobia of trumpets?"*  
  
"No, but it does explain a thing or two." Aziraphale popped the CD into the small music system in the corner of the room. As the first chords rang out he turned back to the sofa, only to find that Crowley was lying stretched out across it, with an open bottle of red wine in his hand. Boots caked in the ashes of hell and the muck of London rested on expensive Liberty-print upholstery.  
  
The angel wrinkled his nose in consternation and Crowley swung his legs out of the way to make room on the sofa. He swung them straight back as soon as Aziraphale had sat down, the boots - ash, muck and all - now resting on pale beige trousers.  
  
The music was by turns melancholy and angry, sad and exquisitely painful. It surpassed the very best parts of the Requiem. It was the writhing of a sensitive soul in hell - yet even the hysterical tremoring of the strings was utterly beautiful, the mournful bassoon, heartrending. Here a passionate sinner's plea crescendoed wildly, there a quiet melody was filled with longing for the cool water of forgiveness.  
  
Yet there was something else, for the music did not speak entirely of despair. Hope abides - as Aziraphale was well aware, but even he was surprised that the composer could hold onto it after centuries in hell.  
  
And there! A trumpet note of defiance, a declaration that even fear and torture could be turned to beauty. The unquenchable spirit of humanity or a spark of the divine even in the deepest darkest pits of Below? Perhaps a little of both.  
  
"Wow," said Aziraphale, opening his eyes for the first time in 20 minutes as the final impudent fanfare faded away. He glanced at Crowley and discovered that the demon had finished the first bottle of wine all by himself.  
  
The combined effects of weariness and rapidly consumed alcohol were evident in the demon's unfocussed gaze. He held the now-empty wine bottle by its neck, gesticulating with it to emphasise his speech.  
  
"It was 'orrible," he slurred.  
  
"You thought so? I though it was utterly beautiful."  
  
"Not the music. The D." - he jabbed the air with a finger of the hand wrapped around the bottle --"P." --jab - "R." -- jab.  
  
"Ah," said Aziraphale. He looked closer at Crowley. The dark lines of the demon's eyes were two deep abysses of misery. His jaw-line was visibly tense, his face even paler than usual and when his hands weren't gesturing wildly they were shaking uncontrollably. Aziraphale's throat constricted with fear. Surely it couldn't have gone that badly, surely if hell had terrible punishments in store for Crowley they wouldn't allow him back for one final drinking session with his supposed arch-nemesis.  
  
But, he had to admit, even the almost-apocalypse hadn't had Crowley this obviously rattled.  
  
The Mozart wasn't meant as a goodbye present, was it?  
  
Trying very hard to emanate nothing but support and reassurance, he forced himself to reiterate the question that had been rebutted twenty minutes earlier. "Crowley, what happened?"  
  
"Too easily distracted, not client-centred enough, unwilling to communicate with superiors, blah, blah, blah. Same old, same old." A few remaining drips flew from the bottle as Crowley waved it.  
  
"Client-centred?"  
  
"To be honest, I couldn't bring myself to ask. I think it means the one-on- one individual tempting stuff. They still don't understand the mass havoc you can wreak with technology."  
  
Crowley stopped and shuddered. He looked squarely at Aziraphale, suddenly and chillingly sober.  
  
"They're sending me on a course," he said.  
  
Aziraphale tried to disguise his spluttered laugh as a cough, but since angels don't ever have to cough, it wasn't very convincing.  
  
"Don' laugh," said Crowley, his voice laced with abject misery. "'Tempting and time management' it's called. Three days. And you can bet there'll be flip charts."  
  
Aziraphale chuckled with relieved amusement before being hit by the sudden terrifying thought that heaven might also be rather keen on training courses. He swallowed hard.  
  
"There, there," he tried, patting Crowley on the shoulder. "I think we need to open another bottle."  
  
Crowley brightened considerably.  
  
The End  
  
*This is a True Fact - or at least some music historians say it is. 


End file.
